The Picture of Sirius Black
by Louiseifer
Summary: Harry PotterDorian Gray crossover-ish. Remus Lupin makes the mistake of a lifetime when he paints a portrait of his lover, Sirius Black
1. “The artist is the creator of beautiful

The Picture of Sirius Black  
  
Summary: In 1979, Remus Lupin makes the mistake of painting a perfect portrait of his lover, Sirius Black. When Sirius become insanely jealous of the portrait's eternal youth, he makes a wish – that the picture should age instead of him.  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Info: AU fic. Probably.  
  
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters all belong to J.K. Rowling. 40% of the story line belongs to Oscar Wilde. 40% belongs to JKR. 20% belongs to me.  
  
Part one  
  
"The artist is the creator of beautiful things."  
  
James Potter lounged idly on an old velvet-upholstered divan and fixed his friend with a lazy stare. The scent of roses wafted in on the warm breeze, edged with the tang of freshly cut grass. The air was fresh and clean, and bright, clear sunlight bathed the conservatory where the two young men sat.  
  
Remus Lupin was glaring critically at the canvas from a distance. He was apparently unaware of James' gaze on him across the room, and failed to acknowledge his friend's amused expression. His attention was dedicated solely to that painted canvas three metres in front of him. The easel sat between the painter and his friend, almost as if James had been sitting for him. While James was a ruggedly handsome young man, he didn't have the elegant beauty of the figure captured in oil paint on the screen.  
  
A lazy butterfly flittered in through the open French windows and did an orbit around James' head. He glanced up at it, then waved a hand to prevent it from alighting in his scruffy hair. The movement caught Remus' attention, and he looked up.  
  
"You've been staring at that painting for quarter of an hour," James complained, his voice softening as the butterfly perched on his outstretched hand and started to clean its feelers. Remus gazed wondrously at the black and yellow insect, then forced his attention back to James.  
  
"I'm sorry," he said. "But I. . .I think it is finally finished."  
  
"Finally!" said James, waving his hand and dislodging the butterfly. "You've been tweaking and poking incessantly at it since before New Year."  
  
"Yes," said Remus, smiling softly as the butterfly chose his easel as a safer spot to sit. "It has taken an unusually long time. But I couldn't possibly do anything else to it."  
  
James got to his feet. "Well, let me see it!" he demanded, striding swiftly round to Remus' side. Automatically the painter moved in front of the easel to protect his work from prying eyes, as he had for months. But James made an exasperated noise and moved him aside.  
  
Remus hovered nervously as his friend inspected the work. "M-maybe it could do with some more work after all," he quavered. But James spun round to face him.  
  
"No! You mustn't touch it again!"  
  
"Is it that awful?" Remus sighed.  
  
James' expression indicated that he was either about to hit Remus or burst into frustrated tears. Thankfully he restrained himself from either.  
  
"Awful isn't nearly the word. . .It is awesome. Remus, it is easily your best work. You should send it to Dumbledore himself, get him to hand it somewhere in Hogwarts, in full view of everyone. Nowhere else is prolific enough for something so fine, and you know he adores your work."  
  
Remus shook his head firmly. "No, I don't think I can do that. I've put too much into it. Too much emotion. Some things should be kept private, if you see what I mean."  
  
"Nonsense. The important people already know everything there is worth knowing about You, Sirius, Peter and I, and anyone who doesn't know must be so absurdly irrelevant that you needn't worry about what they think."  
  
Remus frowned, and James took on a disgusted expression.  
  
"Don't scowl, Moony, it makes you look quite hideous. You weren't made to scowl. Men like you should permanently wear either a wistful expression or one of deep contemplation. And don't give me that smirk, it's perfectly vulgar."  
  
A sharp laugh escaped Remus' lips, and he turned from James, reaching out a tentative hand to stroke the portrait's porcelain face. He half expected it to feel warm, but it was just cold paint.  
  
"You know what else is vulgar?" asked James, in a tone which suggested he wasn't actually interested in the words coming from his own mouth, but couldn't be bothered to put a stop to them.  
  
"What?" asked Remus, tearing his gaze once more away from the image of perfection he had created.  
  
"The way you and he are constantly fawning over each other in the most public of places, then insist that this excuse for a scandal must be kept in the utmost secrecy. It is enough to make me physically choke."  
  
"Then choke quietly," said Remus tartly.  
  
"It seems something of a fad these days," James continued, "for every person to have their own personal secret, something which they would not dream of discussing in public for fear of humiliation, yet they insist these miniature atrocities be known by anyone who's anyone in society. It is quite disgusting, and what is more, they seldom bother to create a very good scandal, such as one might enjoy hearing the gruesome details of over supper. They merely settle for something mundane and pretend it is awful. Perhaps they think it makes them appear more decent to pretend that they think they are perfectly horrid. You, Remus, you are not one of them. If anyone discovered your biggest secrets, they would surely finish you, but Sirius. . .ah, he is the greatest of fabricators. No one gives a damn what you and he get up to behind closed doors, but if he doesn't sincerely believe it is the most outrageous thing to happen this century, he does a good job pretending it is so."  
  
"You simply don't understand, Sirius," said Remus briskly. "And why should a boy like you attempt to understand what Sirius and I have? I would not be surprised if you and Lily were engaged by Christmas, but don't expect me to come to the wedding if you continue to speak in such a dreadful way."  
  
James laughed curtly. "What makes you think I'd invite you to my wedding, werewolf? Oh don't look at me like that, you know I'm joking. You're as dear to me as my left arm. Sirius, of course, is my right and most useful arm, but you're the mainly decorative one which nevertheless is essential to my continued existence."  
  
Remus apparently didn't find this at all complimentary. He made a small sound and headed over to the window. The butterfly, in the manner of all winged insects, was worrying at the closed window while it's unhindered path to freedom lay mere inches away. He opened the other window, and the butterfly fluttered away into the afternoon sun-bathed garden.  
  
"When we get back after the holidays, don't think I won't be having words with the Headmaster," said James, refusing to let the subject go. "You've never let the school have one of your paintings, and you're quite evidently the best artist they've ever had. Dumbledore will talk you round. You'll let them put your painting up in the entrance hall."  
  
"But James," the smaller man explained in exasperated tones, "it is not mine to give away."  
  
"Then who's is it, Moony?"  
  
"It belongs to Sirius, of course. He may do with it as he wishes, although he may wish to destroy it."  
  
"Destroy it!" James was distraught at the idea. "If he does any such thing I shall never speak to him again as long as I live."  
  
"Really, Jim. You do embellish things so. It is only a painting."  
  
"It is much more than a painting – it is a work of art. Any fool can paint things, but you, Remus, create nothing but art."  
  
"And all art is completely useless," said Remus dismissively. "I freely admit, I am beginning my career in art not because it gives me any pleasure but because it is something I can do well, and it is a line of work in which no one need know what I am. It is people like Sirius and yourself who are truly talented."  
  
"Yes, but it is people like yourself who prevent people like us from getting intolerably bored. And you do such a good job of it too."  
  
Once again, Remus wasn't nearly as impressed as James had hoped. He raised his eyebrows and made a comment under his breath which the bigger man couldn't quite make out.  
  
"Anyway, Moony, this painting is a fragment of pure genius. Give it to Sirius if you must – and I must say it flatters him terribly, as if his head is not already of an adequately enlarged size – but do not let him ruin it or lock it away where no one will see it. I implore you, Remus, it must be seen by as many people as possible."  
  
"He will do with it as he wishes," said Remus firmly. He walked away from James again, heading towards the painted image of his absent lover. He knew the painting was proof of his absolute adoration of and devotion to Sirius Black, and that such things should never be left lying about for anyone to see. Why, if too many people laid eyes on it, it would be marred, ruined beyond all salvage. But alas, it would be varnished tomorrow and framed after, and then it would no longer be his own. It would belong to Sirius himself, who would indeed do exactly as he pleased with it.  
  
"Just like he does with everything else," said Remus under his breath, as James took him by the shoulder and led him out of the doors and into the wonderfully fragranced garden beyond. 


	2. “Those who find ugly meanings in beautif...

Part Two  
  
Disclaimer: Unlike the first chapter, which contained nearly no direct Wilde quotes, this one is riddled with them. Play spot-the-quote with a friend. It's the perfect thing for a tiresomely dull spring afternoon. (You could also play spot-the-Velvet-Goldmine quote. . .But since there's only the one, it wouldn't be quite as satisfying.)  
  
Note: Peter really sucks in this part. He sucks anyway, but I wrote him even suckier. However, he has suddenly become as masterful of the English language as his friends. Go him, I guess.  
  
***  
  
"Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming."  
  
Six days later, they were back in their dormitory. Sirius Black leaned casually against the wall. James was watching the werewolf anxiously. The only other seventh year boy in the room was Peter Pettigrew. James had always told Remus in private that he disliked many things about Peter, especially his habit of following the bigger bots about. However, he also said he liked standing next to Peter for photographs. Peter's hopelessly dull appearance heightened James' attractiveness, so he said.  
  
It was another lazy sort of afternoon of the type you get in late spring, before the thrill of the warmer weather has given way to an indecent, sweating desire for autumn's soothing chill. There was a yellow and black butterfly trying to decide whether it wanted to come inside or stay out in the open. It was a Saturday, which naturally meant there were no lessons, and the three young men had been watching Remus fussing over the painting and its velvet cover for longer than any of them cared to count.  
  
"Well, come on," Sirius insisted, adjusting his position against the bedpost. "I've been waiting to see this for longer than is surely decent. Take the blasted cover off."  
  
Remus twitched nervously. "Well," he murmured, "if you really want to see it. . ."  
  
"That is an absurdly stupid thing to say, dear. Now do as I ask before the anticipation finishes me off."  
  
Looking more nervous than ever before, Remus removed the green velvet and revealed his masterpiece in all its glory. Sirius leaned forwards and his jaw hung loose. Peter also started forwards to get a closer look. James stood back and grinned enthusiastically at Remus.  
  
"Moony, it. . ." Sirius began, but words momentarily failed him.  
  
"Do you like it?" Remus asked, a little unsettled by his silence.  
  
"Of course he likes it," said James. "Who wouldn't like it? It is the most flattering thing you could ever do for him, and we all know Sirius loves being flattered so."  
  
"How sad it is," said Sirius quietly, but the two other boys didn't hear him because Peter had started with a cry and backed into a bedpost.  
  
"Remus, how could you?" the small, fat boy squeaked. "How could you paint something so vile?"  
  
James' face had gone bright red, but it was Sirius who suddenly raised his voice above his previous whisper.  
  
"Vile? It is not vile! You had better explain what you mean quickly, and make sure it is a perfect explanation!"  
  
Peter was obviously terrified of Sirius, but he managed a reply through clenched teeth. "What Remus has done is disgusting. It's enough that you and he defy ever law of nature and social decency, but to put these things in a painting for everyone to see? It is too much."  
  
"Peter, it is only a portrait!" exclaimed James.  
  
"It is the portrait of a lover, by a lover. It is repulsive!"  
  
The door slammed behind him as he left. Remus put a calming hand on James' arm. Sirius had already forgotten Peter and was staring intently at the painting again. He was completely absorbed in it, gazing at it with wide open eyes. "Why did you do this, Remus?" he murmured.  
  
"I. . .I guess I wanted to create something as perfect as you are," Remus explained.  
  
"Perfect?" Sirius stood up from his crouch and gave Remus a piercing glare. "Yes, it is perfect. It looks just like me, right down to the very last detail. How well you know me, Remus." He turned back to the portrait. Like all magical paintings, it could move, and kept adjusting its proud pose. Thus far it had remained silent, but Remus assured them it could speak when it wanted to.  
  
"I think it's too proud to hold conversations with mere mortals," he said with a wry smile.  
  
"Mere mortals," repeated Sirius distantly. He was entranced once more by the portrait. It paraded up and down in its frame, obviously relishing all the attention. When he spoke, it was as if he addressed his oil-painted self.  
  
"Would that I were no mere mortal. . .But I shall grow old and ugly, and this picture shall remain fresh as the day it was finished and as young as I am now. If only it were the other way round! If it were I who was to be always young, and the picture that was to grow old!. . .I would give my soul for that."  
  
Remus laughed softly. "I should object very strongly to that, Sirius. My best work marred by mortal aging?"  
  
"You'd rather it was I who were to die?"  
  
"Sadly, Sirius, that is the way of the world."  
  
"How can you speak lightly of such things?" Sirius turned to face his friends once more. "How can you say such things at all? You are quite content to see me get older and uglier every day – every second! – and you sit here admiring this painting, this perfect form which will never know pain or even age! Remus, you love your art more than you love me."  
  
Remus was quite startled by this sudden outburst. He tried to reassure Sirius, but the bigger boy was far from finished. Sirius batted away the butterfly which had tried to settle in his hair, and it spiralled down to the floor. Automatically, Remus scooped it up and placed it on the windowsill. A moment later it fluttered off into the darkening sky.  
  
"See?" Sirius demanded, cornering Remus against the windowsill. "You care more for beautiful things such as pictures and butterflies. But what of me, when I lose my looks? I will be discarded like that butterfly's old cocoon, that's what!"  
  
"Nonsense!" Remus cried. He was completely unsettled by all this, and had gone pink in the cheeks. "Sirius, don't tell me you are jealous of such material things?"  
  
"I am quite jealous! All your paintings are perfect and you will love them always. They will always retain their beauty. Oh, if only the painting would change and not I! Remus, why did you paint something which mocks me so horribly?" He turned away and flung himself down on the bed. Remus climbed up beside him, placed a consoling arm around him, and tried to reassure his distraught lover. James let his gaze linger on them for a brief moment, then turned to face the portrait.  
  
"And what do you think about all this, Pseudo-Sirius?"  
  
The small figure within the frame was surprised to be addressed. "Think?" it retorted. "I am a thing, Potter, not a person. I am not designed for thinking, I am designed for looking at."  
  
"Remus made you, and if I know Remus (which, incidentally, I do) then he made you to think."  
  
"I will never grow old," said the painting eventually. "It is impossible."  
  
"Nothing is impossible with magic, Thing," said James thoughtfully. "Everything is at least a little bit possible anyway."  
  
Remus glanced up from his consoling of Sirius. "Are you talking to it, James?"  
  
"I am indeed."  
  
"Well don't. I am going to destroy it. I won't let it upset so many people like this. I have realised I hate it. It is my best work and I despise it." Remus stood up from the bed and looked about the room, Sirius raised his head to watch him. Finally Remus picked up his wand and strode over to the painting, pointing the long elm-wood shaft at it. Sirius frowned. What was he doing? Nut it was obvious.  
  
"Remus, don't! It would be murder!"  
  
The sandy-haired boy paused. "You do not wish for it to be destroyed?"  
  
"No! Don't do it, Remus, for the love of god."  
  
Remus lowered his wand-hand. He gave Sirius a long, cool stare. "The painting is yours. Do with it as you wish."  
  
"I'll send it home then. It is an. . .extraordinary gift you have given me. One which I will treasure always. It will remind me of how much you loved me."  
  
"Wonderful," said James, standing up swiftly. "And now Sirius and I must leave you, Remus. We are already late for Quidditch practice."  
  
Remus Lupin watched his two best friends leave. As he watched, it occurred to him how beautiful people look when they're walking out of the door. 


End file.
